


In Service

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Inverted Trope, M/M, Pre-Quest, Unwanted Visitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lobelia has a gardening problem, Sam proves less than helpful, but Frodo is more than satisfied</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Service

_Eeeeekkk!_

The gate shrieked as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins pushed her way sourly through, to enter a garden full of heavenly scent, harmonious colours and undeniable beauty. She sniffed repressively, finding fault where she could. It was most unseemly, for instance, that such a raucous racket should echo up The Hill, and she wondered that the Master of the smial did not take his gardener to task, for allowing it to happen. It was possibly the rain of last week, she thought, which had washed away what vestiges of grease had remained on the hinges, and that Gamgee lad ought to have replaced it well before now.

_“I said not to look, didn’t I? I said that it would be safer to pretend that there was nobody home.” Sam’s whisper was exasperated… and more than a little frustrated…_

Her sharp eyes caught sight of the negligent master, peeping from an open window, third on the left along the rose-bedecked smial. Lobelia barely suppressed another twinge of envy, that Bag End should be so floriferous in the heavy summer sunshine. Those towering delphiniums, for example, were infinitely finer than anything her garden could show; their colour—well, there was no denying that their colour exactly mirrored that of the eyes almost concealed behind them, though to Lobelia’s mind, that penetrating shade of blue was far better suited to the flowers. Her own floral display seemed merely adequate by comparison. Would that she might obtain the services of Frodo’s gardener! 

_“Yes, but it’s Lobelia, and you don’t know her as well as I do, Sam, love. She would be up here peering through windows all the more, if she thought there was no-one to catch her doing it! If I lean with my arms on the sill, she won’t be able to see you, and I promise I’ll get rid of her as soon as I can. Just wait for me!”_

The window in question gave onto the master bedroom, as she recalled; not that she been so welcome a visitor as to have had the opportunity to explore the hole, since that unfortunate business with the— 

“Frodo! Frodo Baggins!” 

“Good morning, Lobelia. What can I do for you?” Lobelia might have appreciated the civility more, had she known the depth of Frodo’s reluctance to greet her at all.

_… and whatever she wanted, it couldn’t be anything like what Sam was doing for Frodo now, kneeling cosily in the space between body and wall… for Sam was in no mind to wait for long…_

There he was, framed in that window, unbecomingly dishevelled, and with those ridiculously wayward curls tumbling every which way; doubtless thinking to charm her out of noticing it. He had always had a honeyed tongue, worming his way into Bilbo’s affections and his fortune. Well, she for one was not to be deceived by a (her nose pinched automatically as she breathed the word in disgust) Brandybuck! And just what was he was doing, still in his nightshirt (or almost in it, for it seemed distinctly askew) at almost elevenses time! If she hadn’t known better, she might have supposed him to have a lass concealed about the place somewhere, but she had to admit that whatever his other faults, Frodo seemed to have no taste for debauchery. Had he done so, she would have discovered it by now, but (disappointingly) she could hear not the slightest hint of a rumour linking his name to any indiscretion, whether (worryingly) with a lass of good family or (shockingly, albeit rather satisfyingly) with a serving maid. 

_… the nightshirt drifted more tidily about Frodo’s neck, and his shiver might even have been a reaction to its movement, as Sam’s hands resumed the task he had barely begun, when the gate had delivered its faithful warning. Frodo squirmed, desperately trying not to react, trying to keep himself as still as possible, trying to look for all the world like a hobbit with nothing more to disturb his tranquillity than an unexpected visit from an unwelcome relative…_

"You—you must forgive me for not inviting you in. The truth is that—that I had rather a late night, and am—not yet ready to receive visitors.” 

_“I told you to let be! If you won’t listen to what I tell you, I’ll have to find another way to make you pay heed to me, now won’t I?” The whisper was as teasing as Sam’s unseen fingers…_

“Ohh!”

_… and a half-seeing spectator added piquancy to already awakened sensitivity…_

“Pardon?” Lobelia leaned closer along the side path towards the window. For some reason the Gamgee lad had allowed a vast clump of virulently magenta geraniums—though even she had to admit that they did complement those slate blue campanulas rather well—to loll and sprawl right across the flagstones… Just at the turn of the path, too, where they completely barred closer access (if one were being watched). She would have had something to say about such laxity, from plant or gardener, were she the Mistress at Bag End; as it was, she could only draw a deep, disapproving breath.

_… those unseen hands were roaming freely over Frodo’s body now, seeking the places Sam had learned so well, tweaking and caressing as he knelt out of sight. He was grinning fiendishly, Frodo could tell…_

“Nothing.” Frodo swallowed, hard.

To Lobelia’s censorious eye, the lad looked positively feverish, his cheeks distinctly pink and even his mouth inflamed to an improper red; and he seemed to be twitching in a manner most unbecoming to a gentlehobbit. One might almost have supposed him to be troubled by, she shuddered delicately, those biting insects more appropriate to the lower classes.

_… he could tell, because he could feel that grin against his belly; for Sam had lifted the nightshirt, and his mouth was busy about Frodo’s middle, nipping gently at tender, ticklish skin, then lipping downwards…_

She might as well come straight to the point, since it didn’t look as though her carefully considered plan, of being entertained to elevenses, was about to happen. “I want to see your gardener.” 

… even as his hands crept over the receptive skin behind Frodo’s thighs, slowly stroking up, cupping him possessively, bringing him closer… 

“S-Sam?”

_…the name had almost escaped as a shout, as Sam’s wicked tongue flickered out…_

“Of course, Sam Gamgee. You don’t have another gardener in your service, do you?”

_… another?? Had he another, serving him the way Sam was at this moment, Frodo was not sure that he would have survived. As it was, he was struggling to maintain a semblance of calm hospitality in the face of…_

“What—what do you want with Sam?”

_…of that wanton tongue diligently tasting and…_

“I wish to ask him about my petunias. They are not doing as well as they might, and I noticed in passing that yours are particularly showy this year.” It hurt her pride too much, to admit that she had come here for the sole purpose of seeking advice, but if Frodo Baggins was selfish enough to keep the best gardener in The Shire to himself, he must expect to share his expertise with worthy relatives.

_…fluttering up and down…_

“P-petunias?”

_… with no way that he could express his appreciation, or better still, reciprocate… Reluctantly, one hand came down from the sill, to grasp Sam’s curls, and ease him away before …_

“Petunias! Really, Frodo, I should have thought that even you might recognise a petunia when you see one. They are all along your front fence this year.”

_… And suddenly Sam was gone, leaving Frodo to worry that Sam might think himself rejected. But he hadn’t meant it like that, only that he couldn’t take much more of such loving, without…_

“I know what a petunia looks like, thank you, Lobelia!” It came out with more asperity than might have seemed necessary, but Frodo was far more interested in whether Sam’s feelings were hurt than whether Lobelia’s might be.

“Well, where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Which was the truth, and painful to admit.

_… But then, warm hands stole under his nightshirt once more, behind him this time, their touch setting new fire to skin already alight with longing. Frodo breathed a sigh, both relief and approval, and caught…_

 

“He may have gone down to the village for some—” 

_… a very familiar scent on the air, vying with the perfume from the roses which tumbled around the window. Sam had opened the jar they kept by the bed… He wouldn’t… would he?_

“—thing!”

_… yes, he would…_

“When will he be back? You don’t mind if I come in and wait for him, do you?”

_… the hands were very slick now, and they slid enticingly, distractingly up Frodo’s thighs…_

“NO! Yes! I mean—no point waiting! He—he won’t be back for hours!”

_… and around, to spread a generous amount of Sam’s own soothing, aromatic concoction…_

From his increasingly disquieting demeanour, it looked very much as though Frodo Baggins had inherited Bilbo’s notorious oddity (from which Lobelia had sought ever to distance herself), as well as his smial and his fortune (from which distance was the last thing she had wanted). “I thought you said you didn’t know where he was?”

_… along firm flesh already inflamed almost past endurance…_

“Bywater! He’s gone to Bywater! Not back ‘til dark!”

_… and then…_

“Really, Frodo, there is no need to shout.” Lobelia sniffed in an extremely offended manner, and Frodo had hopes of her departure, now, before—

_… cool salve slipped tantalisingly between heated cheeks…_

“Lobelia! I—I really—”

_… and those fingers slid slowly, warningly …_

“—must—” 

_… inward…_

Positively peculiar, the lad was becoming; his eyes (already too large for Lobelia’s liking, and as for that colour!) were practically starting from his head, and his voice was almost a squeak.

“—go! ”

_…“I will… if you don’t get rid of her, right now! And you know what you sound like when I do…” Sam’s whispered threat was playful, yet husky with need, and Frodo could not doubt the truth in his words…_

“I’ll-ask-Sam-to-come-and-look-at-your-flowers-tomorrow-goodbye!” Frodo gabbled, and disappeared as suddenly as if he had fallen backwards. 

Really, the younger generation had no manners whatsoever! 

“Goodbye!” she announced pointedly towards the empty window, but with no other acknowledgement forthcoming than a sound like a muffled sneeze, she turned to depart. Perhaps, though it pained her even to consider the possibility of any plausible explanation of his behaviour, her upstart relative was merely suffering the throes of a heavy cold, which might explain his feverish looks, constricted voice and that nightshirt. (Though when it came to giving the benefit of the doubt, Lobelia believed firmly that charity began at home, and that keeping it there was simply careful hospitality.)

_… Sam’s left hand was clamped firmly over Frodo’s mouth, the other already buried deep; and Frodo writhed from the ecstasy Sam’s fingers gave, ardently tending the unseen, over and again as Frodo’s being was centred on this one place in all the world…_

Lobelia gazed around, as she made her way back along the path. It was a great pity that she had no more than a pair of nail scissors with her, for the garden's owner would never miss an odd flower here and there, from this positively indecent abundance. Those pinks would surely look the better for thinning, and with a few sprays of ladies’ mantle, a rose or three, and perhaps some love-in-a-mist, would make a beautiful little posy to take home… just the sort of token which a generous hobbit (or his errant gardener) should have presented to a departing visitor. Although her fingers itched to help herself, she restrained the urge, knowing somehow that whatever his master’s blindness, said gardener probably had a complete tally of every flower he had ever planted. 

_…and Samwise now was planted safe within his Frodo, whispering fevered words of love as they twined and pulsed, to tumble together at last, over that sharp edge of want, where urgency gave way to long rolling waves of pleasure._

Thwarted and dissatisfied, Lobelia marched through the offending gate, and was thus rather fortunately deaf to anything but the strident sound of its closing.

_Eeeeekkk!_

01 July 2003


End file.
